


A Spectre (Of My Mortal Soul)

by partywitharichzombie



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: (Dan is 003 of course), Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Friendships, Friendship, Gen, James Bond AU, Light Angst, M/M, Minor Character Death, bonus points if you know who's who!, featuring a whole bunch of minor/background characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-16 02:44:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20169382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/partywitharichzombie/pseuds/partywitharichzombie
Summary: "Explosive device successfully defused. Double-O-Three signing off for now."The Murphy's Law governs chaos, and Max fully expects it to kick into gear. It is his first active mission after all. Machines, processors, lines of codes, encryptions — handling them is his expertise. Having other people's lives on his hands — especially 00 agents notorious for their general lack of self-preservation — significantly less so.Or: vignettes of the life of Max Verstappen, MI6 intelligence operative.





	A Spectre (Of My Mortal Soul)

**Author's Note:**

> So... yeah. I haven't written anything in over 5 years, but this has been eating my brain since RBR did the special 007 livery at Silverstone, so I just _had_ to write this down. Some disclaimers:
> 
> 1\. This... has no actual plot really, just a bunch of moments pieced together to form some semblance of coherence. It does contain some references and plot points from Skyfall (2012), so it might be spoilery if you haven't seen the movie.  
2\. It's my very first attempt on RPF for this particular fandom... so I hope the characterization is not too shabby? Let me know what you think!  
3\. I have zero idea how hacking and espionage work in real life. Stuffs mentioned here are based on my very limited knowledge of the Bond universe canon and a bit from Mr. Robot.  
4\. Sorry not sorry for the amount of background characters referenced and mentioned (I'm only tagging characters with some sort dialogue). Cookie if you can guess who's who?
> 
> _Title taken from Spectre by Radiohead_

* * *

Staring at his own reflection on the two-way mirror before him, Max has three things on his mind:

  1. He should have seen this coming. Hubris leads to downfall. Oh, the inevitability of it. Tale as old as time.
  2. Depending on the outcome of his current situation, if his path ever crosses GroooovyBaby again, he might just have to knock out several teeth off that bastard. (Max considers himself a pacifist, but he deemed it a just revenge.)
  3. Okay, as reluctant as he is to admit, the blame really lies on himself. Why, in the name of all things holy that he doesn't actually believe in, did he commit such a critical faux pas on the highest-risk attack he's ever attempted his entire life? Granted, he is alarmingly close to spiralling into madness due to his lack of sleep trying to attempt this hack, but completely forgetting that the MAC address of the particular laptop he used is tied to his person? An amateur's mistake. Not even destroying it — which, as a matter of fact, he did do — would be of any help. Come to think of it, he deserves this.

The agents before Max have not taken their eyes off him since they sat him down in this dreary interrogation room. From his peripheral vision he recognizes a mixture of exasperation and contempt in their gaze. With all his might, he wills himself to keep a mask of indifference.

_ Everything I say can and will be held against me. _

Max has this sentence in his head on repeat like a mantra since the door of his flat was kicked down — what, 8? 10 hours ago? He has no means to know for sure. He's been subject to questioning by several other agents, including the ones currently keeping watch on him. He’s been treated well, at least, for someone considered a threat to international security. He's kept his silence since, the only time he spoke was to request, no, demand the presence of a lawyer.

The MI6 apparently obeys to and works under a distinct set of law.

The agents only finally break their intense staring when the door behind Max swings open. He takes a quick glance at the mirror to see an almost frail-looking middle-aged man, a woman following him several steps behind.

"M," both agents greeting him simultaneously with a nod, straightening up as the man makes his way to the seat across the table where Max is sat. _ M. A code name? _ Max almost cracked up at how cliché this is. Of course they use code names, especially people as high up the hierarchy as M very apparently is.

Several heartbeats passed before Max finally looks directly at M. Truth be told, he has no idea how he is able to keep a relatively impassive expression, eyes widening only ever so slightly as he takes in the man's appearance: harsh scars adorns his face and hands, permanent markings left by burns, he reckons.

"Mr. Verstappen. I am M, Head of the Secret Intelligence Service."

Max simply stares at the outstretched hand before him.

The corners of M's lips tugs lightly before he lowers his hand.

"In the entire history of the Secret Intelligence Service, a level 5 or higher security breach has only ever occurred a grand total of three times," M begins, accented voice even and slow. "Did you know that?"

_ Everything I say can and will be held against me. _ Max doesn't react.

"The first time happened during the height of the Cold War," M continues, his gaze hardening. "The second time happened three weeks ago. We contained the attack, brought the perpetrators to justice, but not without suffering from heavy losses of resources and significant casualties on our side, as you might already be aware of, Mr. Verstappen. I'm sure you follow the news? And as you can see for yourself," M gestures to the room, "we were forced to relocate. It is a trying time for the Secret Intelligence Service."

M exhales, a touch of weariness that was not there a few moments ago now adorns his features.

"Now, if I may ask, Mr. Verstappen? How am I supposed to be certain that you are not connected in any way to the attacks three weeks ago? How could you have possibly accomplished this unaided?"

Max almost flinched. _ Everything I say can and will be held against me. _He has to resist further, he's aware, but he won't stand to being underestimated.

"You've looked into me," voice breaking slightly from lack of use. Talk about standing his ground. "The MI6 knows everything about me by now."

"We do indeed."

"Then you already know how and why I did it."

"As part of a challenge?" M raises what would have been his right eyebrow. "So you have something to boast about at the upcoming Defcon?"

"Yeah," Max shrugs, trying with all what leftover willpower he has to appear casual. He finds himself itching to bite his lip and rock his feet, his armor of bogus calmness starting to cave under the weight of M's piercing stare.

"I've heard much less ridiculous excuses that held even less truth in it."

A pang of irritation hits Max, he grows increasingly restless. Patience never was his virtue. The fact that he pretty much managed to stay put up until this point is nothing short of a miracle.

"Look, it was a bet, alright? A friend gave me a challenge, told me it's going to be the most difficult hack of my life and that I'd probably fail. I needed the cash, and I _ hate _losing," he crosses his arms.

_ ...Fuck. Shut the fuck up, Max. _

"So I gave it a shot, and it worked. It's definitely the hardest attack I've ever attempted. I had to program my own tool, develop an algorithm to crack your crypto-key — which, by the way, would've taken _ at least a thousand times the age of the universe _to crack using any previously known methods. So — you're welcome. I found the flaw in your system, now you can fix it."

A disembodied burst of laughter suddenly fills the room, startling everyone in the room except for M.

It originates from the speakers; whoever is on the other side of the two-way mirror must have accidentally hit the push-to-talk button. The laughter is melodic and full of mirth, a bizarre contrast to the tense air in the interrogation chamber. One of the agents who has been keeping watch of Max let out a long sigh of exasperation.

"Double-O-Three," M raised his voice, sounding worn instead of irritated. "We are currently conducting a questioning, if you please?"

The man M called Double-O-Three clears his throat. "I like this kid, M."

"003," M repeats, more stern this time.

"With all due respect, he can be a great asset, Sir. We’ve discussed this. Please, consider it at least."

The corners of M's lips twitched again before he fixes his gaze on Max.

"I might very well have to. Surely the Q and I Divisions can benefit from some reinforcement."

Max failed to feign indifference this time.

* * *

GroooovyBaby  : anyone heard from  3auroug3 ?

stowevaleclub :  No. What's up?

GroooovyBaby :  radio silence since fri

55chili :  no

al_the_okay  : Nope soz

GroooovyBaby :  ...fuck

stowevaleclub :  Everything okay?

55chili :  isn't that just what he does tho

55chili :  just disappear off the face of the earth

55chili :  dont worry

GroooovyBaby :  yeah no. all peachy

GroooovyBaby :  except

GroooovyBaby :  he just hacked the fucking MI6

al_the_okay :  He did what now

55chili :  wtf?????????? 

stowevaleclub :  What mess did you rope him into this time  GroooovyBaby ...

* * *

"Oi! Use your fucking eyes!"

It's the third time this week alone that Max almost lost his life. If only it were on a mission somewhere halfway across the globe, deep undercover on enemy territory in a bid to preserve world peace.

Max hops back onto the seat and cycles away, but not without calling the driver who almost hit him colorful names in his native tongue. Maybe he really should start taking the tube instead, but the only thing he hates more than driving in the London traffic is being shoved around and pressed against strangers in a cramped space during rush hour. Riding a bicycle seems to be a natural choice, it’s in his blood as a Dutch after all. Besides, he can now finally afford a bike that isn’t creaking in agony every time he paddles.

Who is he kidding. Three months into being an Intelligence Operative of the Secret Intelligence Service - Q Branch — his official job title, he already pretty much lives at the headquarters anyway (technically, his expertise in breaking codes and security protocols falls under the scope of the I Branch, but the two divisions have since been merged after the Silva attacks). He can barely recall the last time he spent his waking hours in his apartment for more than a few hours at a time — he goes home only when R threatens to revoke access to his network profile, takes a shower once he arrives, then promptly passes out in bed. When he wakes up, it is more often than not to one red alert or another.

While Max _ does _indeed have a hand on the guarding-classified-information business, being an intelligent operative really is way less glamorous than what people imagine, especially for those not in the 00 Division. It is nonetheless quite exhilarating on days when the world decides to turn against each other, although he really should never say that out loud. 

When not encrypting or decrypting top level government secrets or monitoring potentially suspicious activities of organizations the MI6 deemed a threat, he tinkers with weaponry and gadgets under the Quartermaster’s guidance. He considers it one of the highlights of working for the Secret Intelligence Service — giving up on pretty much all other aspects of his life he previously enjoyed doesn’t feel like too much of a sacrifice nowadays. Not only is Q a brilliant engineer and leader for the Q Branch, he is one of the best teachers Max has ever been under the tutelage of — that title was previously held by his Cryptography professor at Cambridge.

Three months in, and he has settled into the Q Branch well, Max reckons. He and his fellow operatives seems to have similar passion and drive for what they’re doing, and as such they all work well together.

Speaking of the 00 Division:

00 agents are more of a myth than actual employed operatives for the MI6 to Max. Aside from his semi-encounter with 003 during his interrogation-slash-job-interview, 00 agents make themselves scarce from the headquarters most of the time, even when technically on-duty but not deployed on missions. R introduced him to 009 when she returned from her mission earlier this week — she has an accent he recognized as Scottish. He overheard Q talking to 005 when he came by to upgrade his sidearm — 005 and Q spoke in German, a language Max does speak fluently, but he was too busy trying to gain access to a document containing evidence of illegal weapon trading to catch their conversation. He has also seen 001 several times at the corridor leading to the medical wing this past week, presumably being nursed back to health after being injured on a mission in Baku (they only exchanged nods, and only after reading the mission report did he learn that the man was 001 — he now has a closely-cropped fade instead of braids shown in his file).

Talking about the 00 agents appears to be one of his division’s favorite pastimes, however. Not even one of the world’s most elite intelligence organizations is immune to workplace gossip, so it seems.

The latest buzz over lunch:

0022 recently returned from paternity leave. 006 went off the grid three years ago while working undercover and was presumed deceased, until he resurfaced in Monte Carlo with a new identity a few days ago. 002 recently retired from field duty and is to become M’s chief of staff in the coming months. A new agent is assigned to the number 007 effective this week, he is said to be transferred from the F Section in Helsinki. 005 recently got married — or the wedding band he now wears implies he did. 003 went to Wacken Open Air and broke his nose in a mosh pit.

003 really intrigues Max, has been since his interrogation-slash-job-interview. Anytime 003 is mentioned in passing, he seems quite unlike any of the other 00 agents. In his mind, being a 00 operative requires a certain degree of ruthlessness and detachment. His impressions so far, however, says otherwise.

Max already begins to immerse himself back to the tracking device he is working on optimizing when the chatter dies down. He is overcome by curiosity, however. "So what’s the deal with 003?"

Max’s deskmate is a ballistics and weapons engineer that goes by Dany. The operatives at the Q Branch all simply go by given names or nicknames of their own choosing, in fact — in a way, code names of their own. Max most often shares his shifts with Dany, Emma, GP, Tata, and Hulk.

He takes a sip of the coffee Max made him and hums appreciatively. "Bit of a character. Likes to hang around a bit whenever he comes down here. Decent enough guy to have a round of drinks with."

"I see. Everyone seems to like him."

"Compared to the other 00 agents we barely see or talk to? Sure, he's alright. He does have a tendency to lose or destroy his equipments, though, so Q probably secretly hates him. And — what's the word Moneypenny used, again, Em? Right — he's _quite charming_ and has an _absolutely_ _dashing smile._"

The mocking over-the-top posh accent Dany used made him chuckle. "But he’s still a 00, it's probably an act of some kind, right?"

Dany puts down his mug with a little too much force, cursing slightly when it almost toppled over. "Maybe. Well, being somewhere on the psychopathy spectrum is probably one of the requirements to be a 00, so he's okay, considering. And he’s the only 00 who actually makes an effort to show up to the Q Branch Christmas party, at least."

"We have Christmas parties?"

"Sure do, mate. Free booze and all, can’t say no to that."

"Fair enough." Max snickers. "Just curious, do any of us even know any of 00's names, though?"

"We don’t have the security clearance, Max," he chuckles. "I mean I'm sure you have your ways to find out, if you're curious enough, but they probably have dozens of aliases anyway. I overheard Q calling 002 ‘Mark’ once. But does it really matter? We get the job done, they get the job done. _ What is in a name? _"

"Ugh, don’t go all Shakespeare on me now."

* * *

_ 3auroug3 _ _ has rejoined the server _

55chili :  U R ALIVE!!!!

GroooovyBaby :  MATE!!!! where hv u been! we r worried wtf

stowevaleclub :  How are you doing, you okay mate?

3auroug3 :  Stfu  GroooovyBaby  you put me into this mess

3auroug3 :  Lucky for you it turned out ok

3auroug3 :  Can’t say too much but I’m set for now. You guys gotta find someone else for Defcon tho

GroooovyBaby :  i’m not the one who forgot to use a burner laptop tho ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

55chili :  oof touche

al_the_okay :  Just glad u r okay mate!

3auroug3 : GroooovyBaby Fuck you I did use a burner. Anyway meet up still on?

* * *

On the Tuesday a couple of weeks later, when Max returns to headquarters after having taken a short nap at his flat — R did freeze his profile and access to the MI6 network this time after noticing he hasn't signed off since arriving on Sunday afternoon — he notices a man sitting on his desk when he swiped his access card to the office space. The Q Branch is still relatively deserted at this hour, save for a couple over at the comm desks who are working on active missions, aiding the field agents live. He waved at Hulk and Tata, but they are too focused on their task at hand. 

The man, however, is decidedly not a Q Branch operative — impeccably tailored charcoal-colored suit, gleaming wristwatch developed by this very division, still-sort-of visible bruised nose and whatnot. He is sipping what appears to be tea from Max's favorite mug, which he sets down as soon as he spotted him passing through the glass door.

"Wow, some of you actually do go home? I genuinely thought you are all tied to your desks. Tata and Hulk there definitely are. Glad you have a semblance of work-life balance."

Try as he might, Max's smile does not quite reach his eyes.

"003."

003's smile on the other hand is open and sincere, almost too bright.

003 extends his hand. Max noticed the number '3' inked on his little finger.

"_ Enchanté _."

They shake hands, albeit with reluctance on Max’s side. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"

"What, can't I simply drop by to say hi to the lovely people at the Q Branch?"

Max has to stop himself from rolling his eyes. He feels himself craving for a caffeine hit, it really is still too early. "Not when I heard Q and R complaining about your losing your gun _ and _earpiece on your last mission again yesterday."

003 laughs, the sound familiar despite Max only having heard it once months prior. "Occupational hazard."

"Sure. Hold on a second."

He comes back carrying a small metal briefcase, setting it down on the desk and opening it to reveal a handgun, several magazines, and the tracking device Max developed.

"Q left these for you. The sidearm reads your palmprint so only you can fire it. Takes the standard cartridge as well, but this particular ones we recently optimized to contain twice as many rounds."

"Ah, the trusty agency issue with a slight tweak this time. Fascinating." 003 takes the Walther PPK, adjusting his grip several times, appearing to test for balance. "Nothing else fancy? Are we really on that tight of a budget?"

"Partly thanks to you."

"Would've liked an exploding pen or maybe even a car with built-in guided missile, you know, those might come in handy." He sets the gun back to its respective place.

Max does roll his eyes this time as he closes the briefcase.

"Not sure how it would come into play considering your mission brief, but alright."

003 picks up his tea again and downs it all in one go before handing the cup to Max. "I have several ideas. Cheers, Maxy."

He doesn’t question how 003 knows his name.

* * *

Game nights at Q Branch turn out to be an effective method of team building, if not to simply unwind from their high-stress occupation. It used to be a long-standing tradition, but the Silva attacks made it impossible for them not to concentrate fully on restoring MI6 to full operating capacity for a good amount of time. Now that the storm has passed to some extent, they reckon they can afford a couple hours of distraction from their jobs each week.

They have done chess tournaments (GP's winning streak is still unbroken), played Monopoly (which, as per tradition, almost resulted in a full-on brawl), brought in a console and played FIFA (Max always beats everyone else), and they currently have a running D&D campaign as well.

Tonight they are going back to basics by playing poker. They are all aware of the fact that each one of them is perfectly capable of counting cards, so it's really more of a game of who can take each other down in the scummiest way possible.

Hulk has been trying to rattle the whole table for several rounds. GP has been glancing at Dany and Emma suspiciously for the last few minutes. Max isn't doing too bad himself, but he reckons he is slightly out of practice, so he resorts to playing relatively safe. By his calculation, Tata is clearly winning, although her face betrays none of her emotions. 

When Tata spots someone passing by their office space, though, she gasps out loud and sets her cards down on the table. Everyone stops and turns to look.

An agent Max has seen a couple of times before whose name escapes him and 003 are making their way through the corridor on the other side of the glass door, presumably heading for M's office.

Instead of the pristine suits 00 agents practically live in, 003 is wearing a hospital gown. He is sat on a wheelchair with an IV attached to his left arm, the other agent pushing him.

003 turns to look at the Q Branch office — quite a feat considering his neck brace, raises his hand for a wave, and smiles. Although a significant amount of his face is obscured by the bandage around his head, it clearly is a sincere one.

* * *

"We’re running out of milk and Jammie Dodgers."

"Good morning to you too, 003," Max sighs as he closes the glass door behind him and stows away his access card underneath his hoodie. "Check the lower cabinet, we still have some oat milk."

Since coming back with significant injury from his mission in São Paulo, more often than not 003 hovers around the Q Branch. The first couple of weeks he was constantly sent back to the medical ward by R or was being hunted down by the physicians responsible for his recovery. Then they gave up entirely, letting him roam around the headquarters as he sees fit.

Max is almost convinced that the 00 agents are really genetically modified human beings with enhanced healing abilities. To his best of knowledge, one should not be able to recover from two gunshot wounds, collapsed lung, cervical and clavicle fracture, and blunt force trauma to the parietal bone so rapidly (he didn’t have the security clearance, but he had his ways to retrieve 003’s mission report and medical assessment). 003's face is almost completely restored to its normal color by now, the bruises fading. The wound from the bullet that grazed his right thigh is now almost completely healed, too, from the looks of it.

It slightly annoys Max that 003 is currently using his mug _ again _ — he is rather fond of that piece of porcelain, being older than he is and whatnot. He genuinely has no idea how it managed to stay in one piece for this long. The 1994 Benetton F1 car print and Michael Schumacher’s autograph on it are now slightly faded from use, but it is still his favorite nonetheless. Maybe he should bring it back with him to his flat if he goes home this evening (unlikely).

"Anyway, Em told me that you’re the one who finally broke Gianpiero’s winning streak? Not bad, Maxy, not bad. He certainly needs someone to keep his ego in check when I’m not around to kick his ass!"

_ Gianpiero? Oh, GP _. Max shrugs. "Nah, was lucky I guess." It really isn’t in his nature to downplay himself, but as much as he’d like to be boastful about having beaten him, GP really is a formidable opponent in chess.

"Damn right, he was," GP yelled from across the room. "I was in the middle of guiding 005 through Jakarta when we played. The traffic jam there is a fucking nightmare, I ended up having to arrange a police escort for him so he could arrive at the US Embassy in time to complete the exchange deal."

"Excuses, excuses," 003 snickers. "So now there’s a grand total of two people in the entire MI6 to have beaten GP in chess. That’s us, Max."

"That was one time, 003, one time. And I was one shot of Jägermeister away from being blackout drunk."

* * *

003 goes through books at a slightly alarming pace. Not being able to go to the gym, shooting range, or anywhere outside the headquarters yet (he complains about this at least once every day when he sits down for breakfast or lunch with the rest of the Q Branch), he spends his time reading in the conference room on the far side of the office space (when not trying to wind up any of the Q Branch operatives). Perhaps it is among the genetic enhancements the MI6 totally did to their 00 agents, Max thinks.

Max cranes his neck beyond his monitor to have a look at the title of the hardback 003 is currently engrossed in. During breakfast, he saw him finishing the last few pages of _ Time Regained _ (in its original language, French). Just a few hours prior, he started reading _ Mindhunter. _ Right now he is reading what appears to be an antique copy of _ The Divine Comedy _, presumably in Italian, but the gold lettering on the leatherbound jacket is already too faded for him to be absolutely sure — Max can only make out 'DANTE', ‘DIV’, and ‘COMM’.

He wonders how many languages 003 is fluent in, and how many a 00 agent is required to master, minimum_ . _When reviewing 006’s files and mission reports, for example, Max has seen him use at least five.

He also wonders how it is to live a life almost entirely void of personal identity — a chameleon, a specter. Sure, he is known online within the hacking community as no more than the not-very-well-thought-out username he picked when he was 15. To be referred to as a letter or a set of numbers in real life, to have their history buried deep under code names and false pretenses, is something else entirely.

* * *

Come to think about it, despite having to survive on half his own body weight of coffee and energy drinks during some particularly challenging tasks and missions, Max is currently living healthier than most of his previous years being alive. The catering at HQ is developed to ensure adequate nutrition for every staff member, so at least he is not eating ramen noodles three meals out of three. The Secret Intelligence Service mandated physical training to all intelligence operatives, field agents or otherwise — they are required to pass both physical and psychological evaluations conducted every six months, so he is pretty much forced to hit the gym at least three times a week. He doesn’t mind, really, he used to enjoy PE classes growing up.

Basic self defense and firearm handling courses are also provided and participation is mandatory. He doesn’t often go to the firing range except for testing whatever weapon Q is currently developing alongside Dany and R, since he is proven to be one of the best marksman out of the entire Q Branch, somehow. Without a shade of doubt he is nowhere near the level of any field agent, 00 or otherwise, but he does have steady hands from years of practice tinkering with wiring and circuit boards, as well as exceptional reaction times.

Any form of martial arts and hand-to-hand combat, however, Max struggles with. It seems to require a level of coordination and grace beyond his skill level. Brute force may be effective enough to knock your opponents out on street brawls, not so much when you have guns aimed at your face at close proximity.

On one especially rare occasion, he got to observe 001 and another 00 agent (0022, he was later told) spar.

Breathtaking was the word he chose to describe their sparring.

0022 has ten centimeters or so height advantage on 001, and in Max’s observation it seemed to affect the techniques they chose to use in attack and defense. 001 has an impressive jumping kick that reached higher than the top of 0022’s head. He landed it perfectly each time, forcing 0022 to take the blow head-on, even though according to the instructor, kicks can be less effective against taller opponents. 001 appeared to have superior command in balance as well, successfully keeping himself on his feet time and time again whenever 0022 swiveled in for a tackle. When they moved on to close-proximity disarming techniques, Max couldn’t help but be left in awe when 0022 escaped from a headlock with a handgun pointed at his throat in what felt to him was a blink of a second. The rest of the twenty-odd spectators were equally thrilled.

When he visits the training facility today, however, it is almost completely deserted. He spots Emma at the ellipticals and GP repeating sets at the weights, and waves at them in greeting.

He definitely was not expecting to see 003 practicing what appears to be karate kata on the other side of the space, though. 

The karate gi is probably not his, considering how baggy it looks on 003 — it is sliding off his shoulders slightly, revealing the fresh surgical scar from having his collarbone bolted back together. He observes for a while. Max barely knows anything about karate, but the precision in 003's movement is quite impressive, considering the extent of the injuries he suffered some six weeks ago.

After completing the kata, 003 takes a bow towards him, which Max suspects is not simply out of habit, considering the self-satisfied smirk that follows.

"Enjoying the view?"

"Just making sure you don't break your neck again trying to pull off those moves," says Max, shrugging. "We want you cleared for duty again so we can get you out of our hair."

"Be careful what you wish for, you're all miss me when I'm gone."

"Nah. GP and I definitely agree that Double-Os are only tolerable in small doses."

"Aye," comes GP's reply from across the room.

"Can't argue with that," Emma adds.

"Ouch. _ Et tu, Brute? _"

* * *

Perhaps he shouldn't have done it... no, he _ absolutely _ shouldn't have. And it may be of everyone's best interest (including himself) if he takes up a new hobby as a remedy to boredom on the rare slow days.

He should be learning a new language instead. Maybe start knitting, origami, or even baking. He has considered on splurging on sim racing gears, now that he can afford it, and build a rig here at HQ. Anything but taking down Facebook or Instagram or trying to break into The Pentagon.

The latter results in heavy reprimanding from M, a stack of paperwork for him to clear, and a mission to complete.

After the meeting Q simply pats his shoulder and tells him not to get caught next time.

* * *

He pulls up the mission brief while doing his evening run at the gym, scans over the details briefly, and eventually has to stop to catch his breath.

The CIA has identified possible security threats to the upcoming G7 summit in Montréal. Selected 00 agents are to be deployed on-site to support the representatives’ security detail. It is going to be his first active mission, providing the agents live assistance on the comm.

An agent’s life will be on his hands, and as reluctant as he is to admit it, it slightly terrifies him. So he ups his pace, straining every muscle he has, and runs until his lungs burns and his legs threaten to give out.

He meets with Q after the showered and changed, feeling slightly foolish when he knocks the door to Q’s office.

"I’m not sure I’m ready."

"We will have to operate at full capacity, Max. We don’t have the luxury to wait until you are," Q sighs, smiling apologetically. "R and myself will be right by you. You are one of Her Majesty’s finest, and so are the Double-O agents. Have faith in yourself — and in them."

He simply nods before getting up and excusing himself.

"Max?" Q calls after him as he opens the glass door. "You are one of our most competent intelligence operatives. And despite the... less than ideal first impressions the MI6 have of you," he lets out a small huff of laughter, "we truly are thankful you are on board."

He rubs the back of his neck, a nervous habit he has tried to kick semi-successfully. "Thank you, Q."

* * *

"Hey, partner," 003 greets him the next day. He is sitting on his desk again, sipping tea. The stack of half-completed paperwork is brushed to the side, his shoulder holster resting on top of the manila folders and deep navy suit jacket draped on Max’s office chair. "Ready to kick some ass together?"

Max really, really should bring his mug home.

"Huh — what?" he replies, distracted.

"Montréal?"

"Uh, right."

Of course he is being partnered with 003. Deep down, he is relieved — at least they are on good terms, and he reckons they are well suited to work together. On the other hand, given the choice, he would prefer to be partnered with a nameless, faceless agent. Zero personal attachment.

_ Wait, what? _ He reprimands himself, pushing the thought to the deepest pits of his consciousness.

"You’re already cleared for duty?"

"With slight reluctance on the Doc’s part, but yes," says 003, waving his hand dismissively. "The MI6 are deploying everyone available. Brilliant idea to gather the leaders of the world’s most powerful nations in the same place in this tumultuous time, if you ask me."

"Good for our job security, though, yeah?" Hulk approaches, taking off his earpiece as he shakes hands with 003. "Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone tries to do something to the POTUS. Dude’s a right prick."

003 snickers. "True. Let’s hope not, though. Less action, less busy we’ll all be. Besides, the VP isn’t any better. You’ll be on comm, too, mate?"

"Yeah. 005. He’ll be on Mutti’s entourage. How about you?"

"EU reps. M and Webbo will be with us too."

"M too?" Max interjects. Why does the head of the SIS have to be present in the G7 summit?

"Meeting with other intelligence agencies. Can’t discuss details."

"Obviously," Hulk snorts, putting his earpiece back on when it beeps. "_ Ja, 005? Alles klar, wird sofort an M weitergeleitet. Halte mich auf dem Laufenden. _" He turns to 003, his face now serious. "Change in schedule. You might wanna pack it up now."

003 hops off from the desk, strapping his sidearms and putting his jacket back on before following Hulk to M’s office.

* * *

During the seven hours it took for the flight carrying 003, M, and the former 002 and newly-appointed Chief of Staff to arrive in Montréal, he somehow managed to catch a decent amount of sleep at his flat, memorize the layout of the venue where the summit will be hosted as well as the surrounding area, and grab a bite at Borough Market on his way back to the headquarters (the Ethiopian food stall is truly divine so he absolutely had to make the detour).

He enters the MI6 building at almost the same time as Hulk, giving him a slightly weary smile after completing the retina scan.

"Ah,_ mijn lieverd _. You’ll do just fine," he gives Max a couple of firm pats on the shoulder before heading to their respective stations.

The Murphy's Law governs chaos, and Max fully expects for it to kick into gear. _ Anything that can go wrong will go wrong. _ It is his first active mission after all. Machines, processors, lines of codes, encryptions — handling them is his expertise. Having other people's lives on his hands — especially 00 agents notorious for their general lack of self-preservation, and the leaders of the world’s most powerful nations as an extension — significantly less so.

GP wordlessly hands him a can of Red Bull before taking a seat next to him and powering up his laptop. "The entire gang is on standby today, huh."

"Seems so. Who’s on the other side?" Max gestures to his earpiece.

"009. She’s still on her way from Tokyo, ETA in an hour."

Max nods. "London just landed. Checking connection — Double-O-Three, do you copy?"

A crackle of static, then — "Crystal clear, HQ."

And now comes the waiting game. He hopes the line stays quiet. No news is good news after all.

* * *

The first day of the summit passes by relatively without any incident. His earpiece stayed quiet, save for the one time 003 instructed him to override control of the security system of the hotel they are staying at. He cleared his mount of paperwork in the meantime, sighing in relief when he dropped the pile off at Moneypenny’s desk. He has been observing the room throughout the day: GP and 009 barely communicated either, so have the rest of the Q Branch operatives with the respective agents assigned to them. Q meanwhile has barely left his office, phone ringing ever so often, almost constantly talking to (presumably) M and Webber simultaneously.

They take turns in catching some sleep on the break room. Max and Tata were taking a nap, Tata sprawled on the couch and Max curled up on the armchair, when they were awaken by sharp beeping tone on their earpieces.

"This is Q. The CIA just intercepted a message containing a possible Level 1 threat in a few hours. Stay put."

* * *

Hours passes with radio silence, and then —

"HQ, do you copy?"

"Copy, 003."

"Broadcast this communication to everyone on active duty, please."

Gone is the every trace of mirth and playfulness he is so used to hearing in 003's tone of voice._ A chameleon, a specter. _

He proceeds to execute commands to relay the communication. "Q Branch, this is Intelligence Operative Q-33. I am about to broadcast my correspondence with Agent 003, as per his request."

The entire room turns toward him. Alarmed, expectant.

"Q Branch, this is 003. At 1340 hours EDT or 1740 hours UTC today, an anonymous call was made to the German Consulate in Montréal. The G7 summit is under imminent threat by a group we are still trying to identify and locate as we speak. We have suspicions of ties to the attacks on the Secret Intelligence Service earlier this year by the group led by Raoul Silva. We have relayed this information to the C and A Sections of the SIS, as well as the CIA. The G7 representatives have been relocated to a secure location.

Agents 009, 005, 001, 007, and myself are currently actively tracking down and locating explosive devices mentioned in the phone call, alongside agents of the Secret Service and police forces of the SPVM, among others. Please continue being on standby, should we need your assistance. Do you copy?"

"Copy, 003." Max wills himself to keep his voice steady. "Standing by."

* * *

"HQ."

"Copy, 003."

"Put Q-26 on the line."

"Q-26 here," Dany answers as soon as Max connected him.

"Q-33, are you still with us as well?"

"Affirmative, 003."

"I am about to relay live footage from my current location."

Max executes some more commands, establishing connection to 003’s phone to retrieve the live video footage.

He and Dany both let out an audible gasp when the transmission goes live. "Transmission received, 003."

"Have you contacted the bomb squad?" Max blurts out, immediately feeling foolish.

"They’re all occupied elsewhere. Won’t be able to reach our location in time. 001 and I are deep underground in a service tunnel in the metro network."

"More explosive devices have been located, then?" Dany interjects.

"Yes. Three more across the city, including one at the venue of the G7 summit." The line stays silent for a while before 003 lets out a chuckle. It sounds bitter and nervous to Max. "Well, now — clock’s ticking. Let’s get cracking, yeah?"

* * *

"Agent 001, this is IO Q-33. I am connecting you to the transmission between myself, Agent 003, and IO Q-26."

"Receiving," says 001.

"Are either of you in possession of tools to open the panel covering the control unit?"

"Yes," answers 001. He raises a Swiss Army knife to the camera.

"That should do the works," Dany confirms. "Loosen the screws covering the control unit and remove the panel. Be very careful."

001 gets to work.

Max and Dany exchanges glances when the wiring of the control unit is finally exposed. "Stand by for a second, keep the camera on the control unit."

"Copy. Standing by."

"Trip wires," says Max, almost inaudible, looking at Dany for confirmation. The latter nods.

"Can you please repeat that?"

"We can identify trip wires. The control unit itself needs to be neutralized before we can cut the detonator from the power supply."

"The power supply is the battery connected to the wiring, on the left hand side," Dany adds.

"Cutting the wiring to the power source now will activate the trip wires, then?" 003 asks.

"Correct."

"How do we proceed?" 001 asks.

"One way is to create a shunt between the relay blocks to the detonator. Then we can cut the wires to disconnect the power source," Dany sighs. He looks at Max.

"...But we need alligator clips to create the shunt," he continues for Dany, on the edge of despairing.

Silence.

"Would tie clips work?"

"_ ...What? _"

"Would tie clips work?" 003 repeats. "They’re aluminium."

"Yes," Max breathes out. "Yes, it actually might."

"Talk us through it."

* * *

"Device successfully defused."

Max has never been more relieved to hear anything ever before.

He takes off his earpiece briefly after 003 and 001 signed off for the time being, setting it down on his desk.

Dany opens his desk drawer and digs out two small bottles of vodka. Max accepts it wordlessly and downs the content in one go.

* * *

They receive the news that all of the remaining explosive devices are all either successfully defused or detonated in a controlled manner shortly after. The planned attacks did not make the news — gas leaks was used as a cover story, and the media ran with it.

The G7 summit continues as planned.

They celebrated success too early, however, as it all finally unravels.

The meeting of the leaders of the intelligence services of the G7 member nations, to be held at 1700 hours EDT or 2100 hours UTC on the final day of the summit, proceeds as scheduled.

Distracted by the events of the day prior, a man suspected to be Raoul Silva himself along with some mercenaries working under his payroll managed to infiltrate the SPVM and locate the venue of the meeting.

The G7 summit never was the target of the attacks.

M, Head of the Secret Intelligence Service, is.

* * *

M’s state funeral is kept modest, held at a church just outside London which name escapes Max. Traditionally, memorial services for officers with such high ranking and contribution is to be held at St. Paul's, but the Intelligence and Security Committee, intermediary organization between the MI6 and the British government, vetoed against it for safety reasons.

Among the attendees, he recognizes the Prime Minister and the Home Secretary.

M is to be buried in Austria, his homeland.

* * *

For the weeks following Montréal, gloom hangs over the MI6. They have lost a charismatic, beloved leader: A man as ruthless in searching the truth as he is unyielding in committing to serve for the greater good.

But the world moves forward, still. More locks to pick, secrets to keep, missions to complete.

* * *

Among the many perks of working for the MI6 (despite its high stress level and sporadic, long working hours, which to be fair, the operatives bring upon themselves most of the time even when no imminent security threat is present), real estate is one of them. Each one of the intelligence operatives is given an apartment in relative close proximity to the headquarters, while the higher-ups and some of the luckier ones even get to live in Kensington or Knightsbridge.

Max is assigned one in Camden Town — latest addition to the team, fairly fresh off university, probably won't complain about the neighborhood too much. Fits the bill. It is a vibrant district bustling with life, one of London’s prime destination for entertainment, especially among people his age. In the end it holds little to no significance considering the fact that he practically lives at HQ. He must say, his flat is more than decent despite being located in a nondescript alley just off of Camden High Street. They somehow managed to soundproof the flat well enough considering the level of noise outdoors, too.

Truthfully, as someone who cracks security protocols for a living, Max would’ve preferred old-fashioned heavy duty deadbolts to lock his flat. At least those would make enough of a ruckus to rouse him from sleep if someone were to try to break in, right? When he tested out the home security system the MI6 installed on his flat when he first moved in, it took him barely ten minutes to override the system. He has since made some tweaks and improvements to it.

Sure, he has very few worldly possessions of significant value, but he has access to top-level classified information. What if someone breaks in, holds him under gunpoint, and forces him to leak said data? With his near-constant state of sleep deprivation, even the self-defense training won’t help much.

It's simply in the nature of anyone involved in any form of espionage to be slightly paranoid.

So when he receives an alert from his home security system, he initially assumed the worst. Until he receives the incriminating photo of the culprit from the hidden security camera he installed at his front door, that is.

Sighing, he picks up the phone and calls his own apartment.

"What the actual fuck, 003?"

"Oh hey there, Maxy," answers the voice on the other end of the line. "Don't be too alarmed, I just need a place to crash for a tiny bit. You're never home anyway. Nice place you got here, if a bit empty."

"How did you even get in?" he demands, exasperated. "Don't you have your own flat?"

"I might have convinced someone from the Q Branch to help me break in. Some blackmailing might have been involved," 003 chuckles. "Desperate times, desperate measures, et cetera. And not in London, no."

Oh, he is going to find out who did it and send them tons of malwares, alright. Maybe not to their work PC, but definitely to their phone. And he definitely has to reprogram his security system again.

"When you find out who it was, please don't go too hard on them. People tend to find it difficult to resist my charms."

He rolls his eyes then hits End Call.

* * *

He is yet to finish his mission report for Montréal, but he decided to cycle back to his flat at the end of his shift that night. He is running out of fresh clothes at HQ, anyway.

As soon as he arrives, he spots a Post-It note stuck to the light switch by his front door.

_ Check the fridge, made mac and cheese. Hope you come round while it's still edible, it's my mum's recipe alrite! + Six pack in there. Bon appétit and don't get too drunk! _

* * *

Every MI6 Intelligence Operatives involved in the mission in Montréal is called to the public hearing by the Intelligence and Security Committee at the Parliament Building.

It is scheduled for 0800 hours sharp, or, way-too-early-o'clock for him, for the day at least.

Max enters the holding room half an hour before the official start to the hearing, the first Q Branch operative to arrive. All the 00 agents who were on duty in Canada (one of whom he doesn't recognize, but concluded must be the new 007) are already present, talking amongst themselves in hushed tones.

He wants to groan out loud. It might be his perpetual lack of adequate sleep making his brain act up, but he feels horribly out of place all of a sudden, with his hair sticking up on the base of his neck, dark circles under his eyes, and lopsided necktie. It absolutely shouldn't matter too much, there are more pressing matters than his being underdressed and looking slightly rough to the hearing — whether or not his mission report is airtight, for example.

Bloody Double-O-Agents and their incredibly crisp tailored suits and gleaming watches his department helped design.

He opts to stand close to the door, as far away as possible from the 00 agents. He loosens his crooked tie, attempting a half-decent knot and getting frustrated when he fails for the third time. Too absorbed in his efforts, he fails to notice the footsteps heading his way, yelping in surprise when he finally registers the person the footsteps belong to standing right in front of him.

"You look like you can use some help," says 003, seemingly not bothering to hide his amusement one bit.

He simply raises his hands, admitting defeat, letting 003 do the work.

"Spill the beans," he murmurs, only slightly irritated. "How do 00 agents manage to look ten out of ten on every occasion with seemingly zero effort?"

"There, good as new," says 003 after he finished adjusting the double windsor. "And well, that's confidential. For our eyes only. You don't have the security clearance." He gives Max a squeeze on the shoulder _ and a wink, the smooth bastard, _before making his way back to the opposite side of the room, continuing his conversation with 009.

Perhaps he needs to get his eyes checked, perhaps he's imagining things. Either way he's pretty sure he just saw 007 flash an amused grin his way.

* * *

The hearing seems to stretch on forever before it's finally his turn to present his report.

There are times when he wonders if he could've done more, if he could've done anything to save M. He should've asked the field agents to cross-check the identities of the police officers on duty that day. He should've voiced his concern on the seeming lack of further action on Silva's part when they managed to defuse all the explosive devices.

His mind involuntarily recalls the penitence and anguish written across 001's face at the funeral. The face of a man who failed someone he held dear to him.

* * *

The Chairman of the Intelligence and Security Committee is to be named the new M.

* * *

The line went silent, save for the deafening static now echoing ever louder in his ears.

He checks the agent's biometric data, finding himself pleading to all the gods he doesn't actually believe in. No signs of life.

"Agent down," Max finally manages to choke out after several heartbeats passed. His vocal chords seem to be frayed on the edges suddenly. "Agent down."

_ The new _M, who is leaning against the wall nearest to his desk with an earpiece on as well, slams his fist to the surface, making the glass separator right beside it rattle.

"Get me the Foreign Secretary immediately," he barks to the room, addressing no one in particular. He then sighs, taking several measured, calming breaths. "IO Q-33."

"Sir?"

"It's not on you," M gives him a weak smile before making his way to Q's office. "I decided against taking the critical shot. Take the rest of the day off, Max."

The words might be reassuring, but he's not sure if he believes them entirely.

He knows he's at fault. He should've seen the trap coming. He shouldn't have put the agent anywhere near the position he ended up leading him into.

"Yes, Sir," he replies, voice still unsteady.

_ Agent down. _

* * *

Operating mostly behind the scenes certainly detaches you from the true perils of this trade of his choosing. Detaches you from the fact that millions, maybe billions of lives are at stake with each operation — or, if the abundance of zeros makes it seem impersonal enough to you (such is the human psychology), the life of the person on the other side of your communication device, at least.

So much for the fun and games of developing and taking down security protocols, intercepting top-secret data, and tinkering with gadgets and weaponry.

Montréal did not affect Max to the same extent. He didn't have to hear the rifle being fired, followed by the dull thud of a body hitting the ground. He didn't feel the sheer helplessness of knowing that the life of the person you just spoke with moments ago was draining away that very second. He didn't hear a series of explosion and rubbles hailing down before his earpiece cuts to static.

And it certainly was not his error of judgement that caused everything to crash and burn.

The now-deceased was a nameless, faceless agent to him, nothing but a series of numbers beginning with Double-O. Another pawn in this deadly game of chess between sovereign nations fighting for supremacy and rogue groups hoping to cease power and disrupt the status quo.

It still weighs down on him all the same.

* * *

Max tries to distract himself, keeping his head down, burying himself in metaphorical mountains of work, busying himself with what he knows best, where he thinks his expertise truly lies: Machines, processors, line of codes, encryptions. One-and-zeros.

He goes to the gym more often, sleeps even less, eats only to fuel his brain, and clocks out only when it's starting to raise alarm with R.

* * *

One evening when he is about to start a night shift (despite having racked up a fairly insane amount of overtime), he spots his fellow Q Branch operatives gathering around his desk, sitting in a circle. The office is much dimmer than usual, the fluorescent lights switched off, only screens illuminating the space. He can't even remember the last game night they had, but it must've been way before Montréal, when 003 was still loitering about in his hospital gown — are they about to start again now? Good for them.

"Hey," he greets them, eyebrow knitted. "What's going on here?"

Emma simply gestures to his office chair, signaling him to sit. He does, then kicks his leather messenger bag under his desk.

"Alright," GP starts. "Dany, the booze?"

Dany pulls out the fanciest bottle of alcohol he's ever seen from his drawer — ornate design circling its neck in gold, glimmering even under the low lighting.

"Tequila? Perfect. So here we go," GP pours himself a quite hefty amount of the spirit to his glass. "I'm Gianpiero. Born and raised here despite my name," he takes a big gulp. "I had to watch someone die on my watch on the very first day as a PC of the Met. Multiple stab wounds, couldn't do anything to save her or her unborn child. The husband did it."

Max visibly flinches, jaw dropping. "Uh, what are we doing here?"

"Getting to know each other. Talking shit out. Agony Uncle for the Intelligence Officer. Whatever you wanna call it," says Hulk, his tone firm. "We all have something in common, even if it's nothing else other than our pretty fucked up jobs, mate. Might as well hold an AA session about it than burying it deep and wallowing in self-destruction."

He continues to hesitate, looking between his colleagues.

"No pressure, though," Tata smiles at him, albeit slightly shaky. "I'm Tatiana. I used to be an asset for the CIA before they left me to fend for myself once they extracted the information they needed." She drinks, and doesn't elaborate further.

"Nico," Hulk raises his glass and downs the content in one go. "But I do prefer Hulk. 11 years at the Bundeswehr, two tours in Afghanistan. They ordered airstrikes left and right without proper reconnaissance. I have the blood of _at least_ a dozen of civilians on my hands," he spits out his words like venom, chuckling to himself in what sounds like disgust to Max.

They continue for several rounds, until they are but sitting in the dark, drinking in silence.

* * *

The bottle of tequila sits empty on top of Max's desk. Still they continue sitting there, exchanging looks, basking in the twisted tranquility of the moment.

He takes a deep breath, steeling himself.

"I'm Max. Verstappen. Look up my surname on Google," he smirks — he aims for sardonic and full of disdain, but falls short and instead lands on battle-worn and weary. "Fucked up family and unfulfilled expectations aside: Whatever the official reports and M say, the truth is I got an 00 agent killed in action three weeks ago."

* * *

"Aww, you were an adorable kid, Max," Hulk passes his phone around. He simply gives him the finger.

It is awfully late/early, they have ran out of alcohol again after raiding Moneypenny’s not-so-secret stash, and some of them have to clock in again in a few hours. He sinks further into his chair and stares absently at the ceiling.

It is the most content he has felt in a long while, Max thinks.

* * *

He gradually learns to come into terms with the fact that in his line of work, death and destruction will quite frankly always be lurking just around the corner. Sure, ninety-nine percent of the time, it is not his own mortality being thrown into the roulette wheel, but the lives of hundred of thousands, millions, billions of people instead — or the lives of the field agents on the other side of his earpiece, just a press of a button away.

The one percent is as follows:

Concrete evidence has confirmed MI6’s suspicions that one of the world’s leading logistics company is really an asset owned by a shadow organization believed to be behind the recent turmoils across the world. They destabilize government, stage coups and assassinations, and supply armory and weapons to already volatile areas of the world.

Yes, the Q Branch can execute DDoS attacks remotely from the safety of the headquarters, so that the company loses access to all its data stored in their servers. It does have a relatively high risk of early detection, however, and M insists that the attack must be in no way traceable back to the MI6. It has to swift, silent, yet devastating all the same. The as of yet unnamed shadow organization must be given no chance to start suspecting that the MI6 are on their tails.

In order to permanently take down the company’s network infrastructure, disrupt its supply chain, and ensure that their own tracks are well covered, they will have to infiltrate the facility and infect their servers with the RootKit program directly on site. If only it were as simple as plugging in a thumb drive to the server.

"They will have multiple failsafes that needs to be reprogrammed," Max concludes his PowerPoint presentation. "Getting into the facility is only the first step. We need someone with the proper expertise to break in alongside the field agents."

He clears his throat before proceeding. "Q and R are certainly out of the equation, they are much too valuable assets for the SIS," he nods at his superior officers, a mark of respect. "Emma and Gianpiero certainly are more than capable as well, but they are currently across the pond, aiding the NSA on another mission — as you all are certainly aware."

M raises his eyebrow. "Are you volunteering to go yourself, IO Q-33?"

"I am indeed, Sir."

M nods. "We will arrange the details at once."

Max hesitates for a second. Asking never hurts. "I need you to authorize something, though."

* * *

3auroug3 :  Lads

3auroug3 :  I need your help

3auroug3 :  Some good $$$ in it too

GroooovyBaby  : ooooooo

55chili :  broke af rn so yeah

stowevaleclub :  Spill the beans!

al_the_okay :  Deets pls

3auroug3 :  Need a Rootkit

3auroug3 :  Data wiping server frying shit

3auroug3 :  Cant pull it off alone

al_the_okay : Wow, the whole 9 yds

GroooovyBaby  : and u cant say what for huh

3auroug3 :  Nah ofc not

55chili :  boooo

55chili :  but i’m in

GroooovyBaby  : if chilis in im in ofc

stowevaleclub :  Do we have a deadline?

3auroug3 :  Next week Tues

55chili :  ooof. better be some good $$$ that

3auroug3 :  Ya ya dont wrry

* * *

They finished programming the RootKit on Sunday.

Max receives his brief on the same day, reading it while eating arepas he nicked from Tata. Of course 003 is the Double-O agent assigned to the mission.

* * *

On Tuesday he is flown to Sion on a private plane. Having only ever flown coach his entire life, he must say, the world’s richest 0.1% or so (and the field agents) really has it going on for them.

His attempt to calm his nerves by trying to sleep on the relatively short flight is proven unsuccessful, so Max powers up his laptop and goes over all the details of the mission once more. On the seat next to him 003 has his noise-cancelling headphones on, looking out the window, his face void of expression. Once on active duty, he really seems to take on a much more serious, laser-focused persona, Max thinks.

Just before the plane starts the descent, Max changes into gear: a specially-designed thermal turtleneck and windbreaker to ward off the chill of the Swiss Alps, a rucksack with a laptop inside strapped close to his body for ensured ergonomy, trousers with all possible tools he might need stowed away in the pockets, and a pair of sturdy boots. The standard issue Walther PPK strapped to his thigh feels heavier than it really is.

003, of course, sticks to his suit (he does carry a heavy parka with him though).

"You can handle that thing, right?" 003 points to the gun when they’re on the tarmac.

"Sure. Practiced a bit on the range these past few days too."

"Good," 003 smiles, solemn. Not his usual cheerful grin. "Don’t hesitate for a second when the need arises."

* * *

The servers are hidden away in a research facility between Sion and Zermatt, inconspicuous despite the volume of tourism in the area. They meet with a field agent from the Z Section (Agent Z-14, Max recalls from the brief) who will drive them to the facility.

Z-14 slips them into the facility in the guise of a maintenance worker with relative ease, dropping them off at a service entrance. The security seems relaxed for now. Once they detect an attack on the servers, it will all change soon enough. Max keeps the thought on the back of his mind for now, focused on locating his target.

They reach the server room successfully with no hiccups, Max having overridden all the security systems and put the cameras on loop. The facility, especially underground where the servers are located, is all but deserted.

"I’ll be right outside," says 003, closing the door to the server room behind him.

Max gets to work.

* * *

Yes, they successfully planted the RootKit on the server, its timed release inevitable, the damage already done. Yes, they managed to do so without triggering any alarm. Yes, they slipped out of the facility again without raising suspicion.

Or so they thought.

The Autobahn 9 is relatively deserted, fog descending from the towering mountains surrounding them as they make the climb do Zermatt. There awaits a helicopter that will take them to Zurich. It looks like it may start snowing soon, though, the cold wave of the last few weeks not having left the Alps yet, despite it being July — the height of summer in the northern hemisphere.

"We have a tail," 003 says, glancing at the rearview mirror of the van. "Black SUV. On us for the past 10 minutes."

Max turns to look. He spots the car following them, about 200 meters behind.

"Can we lose them?"

"We can get off the A9 and make a detour to Visp. We’ll try to lose them on the streets." 

"How much farther?"

"Twenty-one kilometers, give or take,"

* * *

They barely got off the Autobahn ramp when their tail swerves sharply to the left, picking up speed. They are side by side. A hail of bullets follows.

The sound of glass shattering, then all Max sees is red.

* * *

Agent Z-14 managed to put the van into a halt at the side of the road, somehow. Max ducks immediately while 003 pulls Z-14 to a lying position on the floor.

He can hear the SUV stopping just beyond them, doors opening, people stepping out of the vehicle.

"Stay down, Max. Keep pressure on the wound."

003 crawls to the passenger side door. Max hears him counting to three under his breath.

The door swings open and he leaps and aims. One-two-three-four-five gunshots, three dull thuds.

* * *

Despite his best efforts, Max simply cannot contain the flow of blood from Agent Z-14's punctured carotid artery. He thinks he can see the light gradually leaving the man's green eyes.

003 opens the door on the driver's side, then kneels down to take Agent Z-14's head on his lap.

"I got you. I got you," he murmurs. "Hey, stay with us."

"I — No —"

"We got you. What's your name?"

Agent Z-14 starts convulsing, his eyes darting wildly between them. "Stef — Stefn."

"Stefan? You're gonna be just fine. Look," 003 nods at Max, "that's Max. I'm Daniel. You're not alone. We got you, Stefan."

* * *

_ Daniel. _

* * *

"HQ, this is 003. Do you copy?"

_ "Copy, 003." _

"Is the transport from Zermatt on standby?"

_ "Affirmative." _

"Thank you. We will be there in 30 minutes. 003 signing off."

_ Click. _ "Let's get the fuck out of here."

* * *

The fog has cleared up when they finally reach Zermatt. The view out of the helicopter window on their ride to Zurich would've been quite a sight to behold on any other day.

Any other day when Max isn't quite so thoroughly soaked in blood.

* * *

Max destroys the laptop he used to plant the RootKit with as soon as they arrived at the MI6 Z Section base in Zurich. The self-executing attack must already be completed by now. He has complete faith in his group's work — failure is never an option, and especially not when the cost of a life was already paid.

The debrief with Agent C, head of the Z Section, M, and Q via video conference is thankfully short: The mission is deemed a success.

* * *

He ducks out of the room as soon as the meeting concludes, heading for the toilet. He caught a glimpse of his reflection on the mirror: pale as a sheet, dark circles under his eyes, traces of crimson marring his left ear and part of his jaw despite his best efforts to wipe it all off on the way.

Suddenly overcome with nausea, he empties what little content is left in his stomach until he can taste bile.

* * *

He arrives in London, (barely) gets an all clear on the post-mission psychological evaluation, then clocks back to work immediately.

He tries to put his mind off the events that transpired in Switzerland as well as he can, but of course the mission report still awaits.

Max wants to give in to his instincts. To bury himself with mountains of projects again, to push everything out and wall himself in, to fall off a precipice like he did a short while back.

His phone lights up with a text from an unknown number.

_ Could use a drink or five before I'm shipped off again. Wanna tag along? _

* * *

He can't remember the last time he is out and about at these hours. It's 7 pm on the Friday a week after Switzerland, the streets and pubs of London packed and alive.

The minute he arrives at The Black Dog, Max spots 003 with little difficulty at the counter. He sees the bartender put two glasses of what appears to be whisky in front of him. He picks one up, clinks the glass together, and downs his in one go.

"Already starting without me?" says Max when he arrives at the bar. He takes a seat on the empty stool beside him.

"Hey," 003 greets with a smile. "Only my first. And second."

"Drinking to a friend?"

003 nods. "Well, since he can no longer have one."

"I’m sorry," is all Max can think to say.

"Five years ago today." 003 sighs, picks up the second glass and empties it, again in one go. "Alrighty, now you have to catch up." He flags down the bartender.

* * *

They didn’t end up staying for too long, only having finished a pint of beer each, opting to take a walk in the warm July evening instead. The sun has just barely set when they arrive at St. James’s Park after having made a stop at Tesco Metro for more booze and a chippy place on the way. They sit on the grass by the lake, eating their fish and chips in silence.

"How are you holding up?" 003 asks after he’s finished eating.

Now he wasn’t expecting that. Max shrugs. "Alright, I guess."

"Max," his tone is tinged with concern. "Are you sure?"

He opens a can of cider and takes a sip. "What, Agent Double-O-Three is doing therapy sessions now?"

"Mate, you had someone die in your arms a week ago," he bites back. "That sort of thing stays with you."

Max opens his mouth to counter, but finding no words. So he stays silent.

003 sighs, then lies down on the ground, hands folded under his head. "That friend of mine? We went through the 00 program together. Saved my life too many times to count. And I watched him die before my eyes." He looks at Max. "I let my guard down for a split second, and came back to him and a couple of other field agents choking on the pool of their own blood. It was our first mission as 00 agents."

A pause. He gets up to a sitting position and grabs the gin they picked up earlier, drinking it straight from the bottle before lying back down.

"It doesn’t get that much easier, you know. Witnessing death. Taking lives. Not really."

"But we have to do what needs to be done," Max mutters then, almost to himself. "Doesn’t it weigh down on you?"

"It does. That’s why the psych evals are there to keep us from going completely mental," he chuckles, a mixture of bitterness and amusement. "But as you just said," he sighs, "we need to do what needs to be done."

"Just how things are in the MI6, huh."

"See? You’re learning fast, Maxy."

* * *

For a while, they simply drink and watch the last gasp of daylight surrender to the night.

Suddenly Max is reminded of something he has been wanting to ask 003 for a while (or any 00 agent, really), and now that they’ve strayed into subject matters he thought they’d never touch… eh, what the hell.

"You know I’ve always wondered how it is to be faceless, nameless people working in shadows."

"You get used to it," 003 chuckles. "Human beings’ ability to adapt is truly remarkable."

"Doesn’t it feel a bit weird, though? Being constantly referred to as a set of digits?" 

"A constant reminder that we’re all expendable, I guess. We are _ Her Majesty’s Finest, afterall, and our duty is to the world," _he snickers, tone mocking. "Doesn’t matter to them if it’s John Doe or Daniel Ricciardo behind the Double-O-Whatever designation as long as the job’s done. So the taste of glory won’t get to our megalomaniac heads."

Max laughs, then takes several gulps of his drink.

Silence settles again between them, save for the rustle of wind and distant background noises of the city.

Max then turns to look at 003, hesitating slightly. "So. Daniel, huh."

"That’s me." Daniel props himself up on an elbow and offers up a hand. "_ Enchanté _. For real this time."

He shakes it.

"Ew, your hand is still greasy," Max recoils. He wipes his hand on Daniel’s suit jacket before getting it smacked away, laughing.

"Daniel."

"Yeah?"

"Don’t spies usually have some ridiculously catchy action hero names, though? Wasn’t that taken to consideration on the selection process?" Max nudges Daniel’s shoulder with his can. "Bonus points for alliteration."

003, Intelligence Operative of the Secret Intelligence Service, is reduced to a laughing fit, the amount of alcohol in his bloodstream a major driving factor.

"Which is why I slightly envy 0022," Daniel finally says after his laughter has died down. "I can’t reveal it to you, but he has an absolutely badass sounding name."

"What," Max snorts, "like ‘James Bond’ level of badass?"

He bursts into laughter again.

"Close. Same initials."

"...Holy shit."


End file.
